This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2019 Spring Print Edition
Next to Ursa Major and Minor, a princess and a prince, next to Cassiopeia the arrogant, next to the archer aiming his bow in valor, next to those honored by gods and those punished by gods as fables, is the constellation Canned Pineapples. A distinctly cylindrical formation that appears as spring reaches its peak and brightens as the burning heat of summer arrives.
Why this canned shape was not soup as Andy Warhol would plainly see, or green beans or sardines (actually that is a more terrible alternative to the pineapple so scratch that) or lima beans or pinto beans or anything but canned pineapples (Dole if you have it) is commonly linked to the discoverer of the constellation who simply said, “I like canned pineapples.”
What she meant was that it was what she ate in a fever. Cold sweet pineapples, poked through with a single chopstick fed to her by her mother, who couldn’t afford orange juice so made do with canned pineapples from the pantry below their apartment as a source of vitamin C. The sweetest damn thing she’d ever eaten. Her mother had fed her to the last drop. She had gotten sick in the stomach from drinking the syrup meant to be preservative but her head had felt a little lighter. She wondered later if the syrup would melt her bones like what mama said about coca cola melting teeth or if it would preserve her insides like what diet coke did to the lady in the newspaper article. Or would this sweet nectar turn her sweeter still.
Many an outraged anti-big money journalist accused the discoverer of receiving an enormous pay out to lease the celestial hall of fame as an advertisement board for one of the most atrocious fruit-juice coated conglomerates that profited from imperialism.
Reading this the discoverer simply said, “well then, guess it’s going to be called the goddamned Canned Tomato Soup in a couple years.”
Her husband left the day canned pineapples flooded their driveway. Dole had tried to pay her. In a lifetime supply of canned pineapples no less. Her husband hated canned pineapples, but what he hated even more was being Mr. Canned-Pineapple-discoverer’s-husband. He had always been the amateur astronomer looking for new stars through a telescope that could’ve paid for hospital bills, or a new car, or a child. But he was more preoccupied in the heavens, and she in teaching Classics and so in their home was a state of the art telescope, and a beat up station wagon, and no baby crib. It had happened half on accident and half on whim, by word of mouth and propulsion of absurdity. Perhaps it was because of the romantic notions that he always dismissed her of, or perhaps it had been written in the stars all along.
As she opened up another can of pineapples bought from the Walgreens down the block, she remembered how her mother had taught her that girls weren’t supposed to have short hair, girls weren’t supposed to swear and girls weren’t supposed to go against their husbands. But apparently, girls weren’t supposed to discover constellations either.
She wondered how she could effectively destroy the cans that seemed to multiply on her driveway and now infected the lawn. She simply said, “fuck it” and let it fester. They shone like stars in their tin and yellow wrap with each passing headlight that wasn’t a beat up station wagon.
“The Greek poet Aratus is credited with the creation of constellations and their fascinating stories. He weaved beautiful and heart wrenching tales. The sky was a canvas that promised meaning in its mysterious patterns.” But who deserves to be immortalized?
The chalk stopped. Who created the narrative in the sky?
She remembered how her sky had been divided in four—an azure dragon chased a black turtle who chased a white tiger who chased a red phoenix. The guardians of the four corners of the earth smiled on her. She remembered the day when she realized the sky was written in english, while her stories sang korean. In the eyes that stared back at her, the tiger’s tail was the belt of some guy named Orion who also apparently had a bow (probably to kill tigers with).
She donated the cans to the food bank, sold the telescope on eBay and bought a new car. She cut the long straight hair he loved to run his finger through and left him a voicemail to take the rest of his shit with his fragile masculinity.
The new generation was getting tattoos of Canned Pineapples. Canned Pineapples graced many a shirt in Forever 21 and Target. The occasional angry reporter still showed up. But soon Canned Pineapples was a part of the sky as much as her highness Andromeda or Zeus’s Aguila. She smiled, Orion be damned.